


True Allegiance

by Raven_Ehtar



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: (future) mentions of childhood abuses, Alternate Universe, Emotional Manipulation, F/M, Family Secrets, Gen, M/M, Manipulative Spock, Moral Ambiguity
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-27
Updated: 2017-09-18
Packaged: 2017-12-13 03:09:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/819281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raven_Ehtar/pseuds/Raven_Ehtar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spock's life begins on the cusp of danger. A creature of mixed alien heritage, he requires the very best to even make it to term. But he's worth the effort to someone. There are plans for his future. Plans that he will have little control over, unless he can find the strength to defy his training.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Eventually I’ll be writing something for the early days of Sarek and Amanda’s relationship, because I absolutely adore them and really enjoyed writing out their interaction here. As for this little piece… I don’t know if I’m going to continue it or not…

The room was a dimly lit cave, shot through with bright electronic stars. The beeps and whirs of sophisticated medical machinery jabbered back and forth to each other like mechanical insects. There was the faint odor of disinfectant, perhaps a suggestion of sharp medicinal scents, but the air had the flat, lifeless taste to it that was the signature of air often recycled. 

There was just enough light to see the walls that formed the room as well as its contents. It was not very large, and the walls were given over to specialized readout panels, banks of delicate controls, calibrators, computers, memory stacks… From the walls moving inward was a ring of standing units, each with a specified purpose, each with its own set of readouts, sensors and controls, independent of the wall banks. This one was for measuring oxygen, protein and pH balances, another for the manufacture and injection of suspension fluids while the one beside was for the extraction of old fluid and recycling of what could be salvaged and feeding is back to the fabricator. One entire side of the ring was dedicated to monitoring. Some were easily recognized in their purpose: this one a heart monitor, that one pulse and blood pressure, another for brain wave function. Others were less obvious, their readings bearing on balances extremely delicate and subtle.

All of these machines formed an orbiting ring of watchfulness, and were connected to one central node. It stood as a pillar in the room, from floor to ceiling, and had eight sides, eight faces, and eight panels set at waist height with yet more controls, more indicators, more arcane codes. From this central pillar ran bundles of cords, tubes and wires, all neatly arranged and organized, radiating out to mate with the watching ring. 

Standing inside this darkened room was a single figure, small and slender, one might go so far as to say slight. A human female garbed in the flowing robes of Vulcan, her dark hair gathered neatly at the base of her neck. Outwardly she was composed, calm, but small signs betrayed her: how her fingers curled about themselves in her voluminous sleeves, the line of her clenched jaw, and the brightness of her eyes that never wavered from the pillar. 

The pillar was really a vessel, and though the woman could not see inside it, she knew exactly what it contained. She did not need to see, it held something precious to her. 

_My son._

Amanda Grayson of Earth, married to the Ambassador Sarek of Vulcan, placed both hands over her abdomen and gave a small, involuntary shudder.

She knew that her being here was illogical. There was nothing to be done now that wasn’t already being done, and even if there were, she did not have the necessary knowledge or training. She was a teacher, not a scientist, geneticist or doctor. She had already contributed what she could: an underdeveloped child, which even now hung suspended in a manufactured embryonic fluid.

Even had she not understood for herself just how irrational it was for her to be here, the looks cast her way by the Vulcan staff would have informed her. The machines did their jobs well, but it was still necessary for live specialists to monitor them, to read the measurements they gave, to make those slight adjustments that appeared so miniscule and yet could mean the difference between life and death. Whenever one would come in they would glance at her, note who she was, and say nothing. They did not need to; their attitude said all that their words did not. They could not understand for themselves why she was there, she had no role to play here, and one could not change what was happening simply by being present, by _watching_. Even should an emergency take place, her presence would have no bearing whatsoever on the outcome. 

But while they could not understand the motivation, they knew who she was, recognized her as a new human mother experiencing distress due to the danger her child was in, and gave her privacy. Her rank as Sarek’s wife would have afforded her that measure of respect even if Vulcan customs had not.

She had felt such joy when she had conceived. She was pregnant, she carried Sarek’s child! It was rare, incredibly rare for the bloodlines of human and Vulcan to mesh so, and in those cases when a pregnancy arose, it never went beyond the first month. No human-Vulcan hybrid had ever made it to full term, somewhere between the nine months required for a human and thirteen for Vulcan. All such children had perished. But Amanda not only had conceived, but the growing fetus appeared healthy, vital and forming well. More importantly, she carried beyond the four week threshold, on to five, then six, seven…

It was all going so well. Until her body, finally perceiving the alien DNA in her as an invader, aborted the process at twelve and a half weeks. Only week months along and her body rejected its own child. It was longer than any other comparable pregnancy on record, yet still, not nearly enough. 

She supposed now that it had been too much to hope that she would have been able to carry a hybrid child to full term. But oh! if only she could carried him even a little longer! Then, perhaps, it would not be so uncertain if he would survive. Her body had failed. She had failed. 

_My son. My **son**._

The only reason he lived now was because he was Sarek’s offspring. As Ambassador he was greatly respected, knew many others in respected positions and had the influence and funds required to attempt a thing never done before: to nurse a human-Vulcan hybrid to full term.

Amanda couldn’t see her son, so instead her stare fixed on the machines, on the telltale lights and graphic readouts, those signs that told her the child’s condition. It was all so very primitive, she thought, these devices meant to keep him alive. She knew that the best minds were behind the functionalities of these, but they unsettled her. Their presence unsettled her; the very fact that they were _needed_ unsettled her. She never thought that she would be standing in a nest such as this, relying on these archaic devices to preserve one who meant so much to her.

_My son, my son is there!_

It was just as well he had gained as much strength in her womb as he had, for the machines he was encased in now, for all their delicately balanced efficiency, were not keeping him strong. He lived, but he did not thrive as he had done before the rejection. If her son survived, he would be sickly, underweight by the end of term. He might be small his entire life because of this danger so early in his existence. 

If he survived.

She took her hands away from her abdomen, away from the newly regenerated flesh where she had been cut to lift out the failing fetus, and in the shadowed light examined her fingers. Such a complex web of life, she mused. Such complex, subtle beings we are, yet we constantly take it for granted that we shall continue. Just the act of breathing, of taking in oxygen to revitalize blood cells, was such a simple thing in conscious practice, yet so involved a process on the cellular level… Air in through the nose and mouth to the lungs, the alveoli where oxygen were picked up by the blood via thin networks of capillaries. Red blood cells swept away to be circulated throughout the body through arteries, veins, more capillaries, depositing that oxygen. Flowing back to the heart, the lungs again that expelled waste carbon dioxide in exhales… 

All in a single breath. So easy to disrupt, destroying the chain, killing the organism. And her son… he was in a much more delicate state now…

There would be no second attempt at bearing a child of Sarek’s, she knew, even should this child miraculously survive. Steps would be taken to prevent even an accidental conception. The risk to herself was considered too great. If this child died, she would remain without one her entire life. She would be effectively barren. 

She shivered, held her arms close against her body.

The door hissed open and Amanda carefully arranged her features to a blankness she was becoming accustomed to. Expression of emotion was considered rude, even offensive, and while allowances were made for her based on her species, she had no desire to make these people uncomfortable. So well-conditioned she was that when she looked over and saw the familiar figure outlined in the light of the hall, she did not show the rush of relief she felt. 

The figure, tall, lean and angular, betraying a clipped efficiency in its motions, paused in the doorway to allow its sight to adjust to the comparative dimness and scanned the interior of the room. When its gaze turned to Amanda, positioned near one wall, nestled between two humming machines, the figure came in, stride quick but soft. 

Sarek stopped in front of her, looking down into her deliberately calm features, his own face an impassive mask, his dark eyes black in the shadows. “My dear,” he said, and then stopped. 

By those two words, Amanda understood just how deeply upset her husband was. He spoke in Standard, which was naturally inclined to a heavier stress on emotionalism than Golic Vulcan, but his choice of words was also a clue. It revealed sentimentality never expressed in public, even when in reasonable privacy in a public place. So many humans expected any stray emotion in Vulcans to show in relatively obvious, observable ways; a frown, a rumpled shirt, a raised voice, but Vulcans were reserved beings. What there was of emotion that _could_ be read had to be seen through layers of control and training. One observed the intention, not the gesture. 

For a moment she considered reaching out to him, to seek a measure of comfort in physical contact. He would not pull away, she knew. He made more allowances for her ‘illogical ways’ than any other; he understood her distress and love would hold him to suffer her emotion. But it _would_ be a sufferance. It would make him uncomfortable, and she couldn’t force that on him. With a small effort, Amanda held herself back, only giving a small, faltering smile as a reply. 

Sarek, long accustomed to the peculiar ways of humans in general and of his wife in particular, recognized the struggle for self-control and what it cost her. He stepped close, rested his hands on her shoulders, so slender and fragile beneath the light robes she wore. 

It was another measure of his love for her and the compromises he was willing to make for her. He was used to humans, it was true. As Ambassador he had spent much time on Earth and come to know their ways well, more than tolerating them but accepting them and their foibles. But still, he was _Ambassador_ , whose position in the complex Vulcan social structure could be weakened or even compromised by taking an emotional human female as wife. 

She was very fortunate, Amanda knew. 

“T’hayal told me where you had gone,” he said, his tone the odd, near-inflectionless cant that was typical of Vulcan speech. It was a little difficult for humans, who were used to reading a second conversation carried on the rising and falling of tone, to listen to. It was like trying to grip water; it just slipped through one’s fingers with no handhold. 

She nodded absently, letting her eyes fall away from Sarek’s face. She noted his clothes, still the formal blacks with red and gold trim of his office; he hadn’t even changed his robes in coming here. “I… felt I couldn’t rest properly without coming to visit,” she said.

She felt Sarek nod as well, how he looked around the room, taking in the instrumentation and their readings, all reporting on the condition of his son. Amanda looked past him to the central pillar. She gently touched one of the hands on her shoulder, the barest brush with a single finger against his thumb. “It’s hard to think of him, so fragile and in that contraption. Sometimes I just wish I could see _him_ , instead of all these equations.”

“Quite impossible,” Sarek replied, and she stifled a flinch at the brittleness in his words. “Exposing him or the compounds being fed to him to light would be disastrous at this stage. We will have to be satisfied with what the machines can tell us until much later.”

“I know. It is an emotional, irrational response.” She did her best to control the frustration, to make her tone light. “I’m-“

“Do not apologize,” Sarek interrupted brusquely. “You are human; it is in your nature to feel and to express those feelings.” Fingertips to her cheek, Sarek gently brought her focus back to his face, where she could see the sincerity of him as well as hear it. “I know this of you, my wife, and would not have you altered. Think you to do so, and so diminish yourself?”

Tears started up in Amanda’s eyes, softening the lines of her husband’s face through a veil of moisture. “No, my love.”

For a time they stood in silence, shadowed and listening to the beeps and mechanical whispers of the devices that kept their child alive. So close he was to them, yet invisible; present in all they saw around them – his heartbeat, the minute fluctuations of temperature – yet entirely unknown to them. 

_What a strange family,_ Amanda thought. _A human, a Vulcan, and their mixed blood son, stitched together with cogwheels and potions._

Sarek’s voice interrupted her thoughts. “I have spoken with the chief geneticist. She and her team are confident in their projections for him. So long as nothing too unexpected reveals itself, our son has a reasonable chance.”

“Which is more than we could have reasonably hoped for.”

“Indeed.” Sarek shifted slightly, and Amanda’s senses came alive, the fidget revealing uneasiness in Sarek that was rare. “There is the possibility, sometime in the future, when it may be needful for our child to have a proper womb, to either finish out or nearly finish out the term.” He paused, and if he were human, would have cleared his throat. “Would you be willing to attempt that, Amanda?”

She didn’t hesitate. “Of course I would. If it means giving him a chance, I’ll do it.”

There was a pause as Sarek arranged his words before speaking. “There is some element of risk to you. The possibility of a second rejection…”

“I don’t care, Sarek,” she said, looking up at him fiercely. “If it means our son had a chance, any chance, I’m willing to take that risk.”

Sarek stared at his wife silently a moment, then nearly smiled. “Of course. I was foolish, perhaps, to think I could dissuade you if I’d wanted to, much less that you would refuse.”

“You were indeed, my husband,” she replied lightly. 

“Will you come home with me?” he said, stepping away with a more businesslike air. “T’hayal was already preparing the evening meal when I left the house.”

Amanda shook her head. “I’ll stay a few minutes longer, Sarek. You go on ahead and I will follow.”

“Amanda…”

She looked up at him, saw the worry he felt for her where no one else would have and smiled reassuringly at him. “I’ll be alright. I need only a few minutes more. To compose myself.”

A brief hesitation, a slow stroke of her cheek with the side of his thumb, an intimate gesture for a Vulcan, a small parting nod and he turned to leave, granting her privacy.

Once again alone in the darkened room, Amanda looked around, filled with a kind of awe at the lengths being taken for her son. 

_My son!_

Her stomach twisted, her heart clenched, and she wondered at that, too. The depth of emotion she felt for her child was one she had never felt before, and it was incredible. So powerful it felt as though it could drive her to anything. 

There was a product of her deep training, though. The subtle, almost unintentional control of responses, tricking the body so it acted on a level that fed false information even to the subconscious, and so to the subconscious of the observer. Amanda felt a brief flicker of satisfaction. The Vulcans had given up a powerful weapon, she thought, when they had forsaken their capacity to _feel._

She looked at the pillar that encased her son, stared as though by force of will she could peer inside, and felt her heart clench again in fear. 

_My son._

_My instrument._

_My weapon._

_**You must survive.** _


	2. Chapter 2

“She’s a beautiful ship, wouldn’t you say, sir?”

Commander Spock, newly appointed First Officer of the USS _Enterprise_ , looked over at his companion, only a raised brow betraying any interest at the stray comment. The security officer, dressed in a brand new red and black uniform, was completely unaware of the scrutiny. His attention was completely taken up by the view outside their observation ports, locked in a kind of loving rapture. 

Looming just outside their tiny shuttle was the craft that was to be their home for the next five years. 

Gleaming silver in the lights of dry dock, transports flitting around it like mechanical worker bees tending their queen, was the Constitution class starship, USS _Enterprise_. As they swung around the registry number came into view, NCC-1701, prominently displayed across the sweeping disc section, the two powerful nacelles holding the warp coils extending out behind. It was a tribute to Starfleet’s mechanical prowess and the pride of the Federation’s cruisers, though it had yet to see much action. In fact, excluding the mandatory test runs and one or two small missions before being given a permanent crew, the _Enterprise_ was still new. 

Spock could believe it. Every surface still shone as though it had just been buffed, not a single dent or scratch marred the long lines or mathematical curves. Even the slight soiling that was to be expected when encountering dust, debris or radiation was absent. 

The security officer, still staring at the ship with starry eyes, was obviously enamored with it. This was a trait that Spock had often noted in humans, particularly in those whom he chose to affiliate with. It was common for them to express a kind of fondness, a devotion to their vessels that one would normally expect to only take place when encountering a creature of flesh and blood, rather than a machine of wires and circuit boards. The security officer was holding true to this odd behavioral pattern, and appeared well on his way to a full-blown infatuation with the ship.

Spock turned his attention away from the crewman, adjusting their course to the docking post in the starship’s side. It was just as well he was the one piloting the shuttle, as the security man was too awestruck to pay proper attention. “The _Enterprise_ is a fine vessel,” he replied, inflectionless. “Though I would not use the term ‘beautiful’ in its description.”

The other man sighed. “No, I suppose you wouldn’t.” 

Despite the sigh, he did not appear at all deflated by Spock’s cold response, and continued to stare out at the _Enterprise_ until their approach came so near that all they could see was gleaming metal. 

Once securely docked, the two men exited the transport and found their way to the main halls of the ship. It was here that the human hesitated, uncertain. 

“Will you be requiring guidance from here, Commander? I’ve been aboard the _Enterprise_ before to assist with her outfitting and could direct you to whatever you need to go…”

“That will not be necessary,” Spock put in smoothly, observing the high level of activity around them. The _Enterprise_ was mere days away from launch. Such business should have been over and done with long ago but on closer inspection he saw that it all appeared to be crew sorting out their personal belongings rather than anything to do with the ship itself. He turned back to the still waiting Security man. “I have studied the schematics of the ship carefully and can find my own way. Please attend your duties.”

The man straightened. “Sir.” He turned smartly, then dove into the tossing chaos of Starfleet uniforms and was quickly lost to Spock’s eye. He turned and surveyed the hall with an appraising eye, deciding where to go first. 

There was no official reason for Spock to be aboard at that very moment. He could just as easily still be on Earth, completing up those tasks that needed attention before the _Enterprise_ disembarked on her mission of deep space exploration. His quarters needed to be outfitted, but Spock had so few personal items that it would take very little time to transport and arrange. This visit was to familiarize himself more directly with the ship; to know by experience how many steps it would take to get from place to place, to recognize each corridor and panel. This was to be his home and his responsibility, after all, and the scene of the most important missions of his life. As First Officer his knowledge of the ship could be second only to the Captain’s. 

An hour later Spock had finished up with the first portion of his self-guided tour, having familiarized himself with his own – bare – quarters, the gymnasiums, the mess decks, the boardrooms, and the storage areas. The last minute hustle and bustle of the crew had been present everywhere, Spock had recognized some of the faces from his perusal of the ship’s manifests. Few, if any, had recognized him beyond ‘the Vulcan First Officer,’ but that was to be expected. Humans had a habit of perceiving form before identity. They would come to know him as he came to know them. Even with a full complement of 430 crew members, being confined to such a small space would generate quite a bit of familiarity. 

It wasn’t until Spock turned his attention to the more key areas of the ship, the Bridge, Sickbay, and Engineering, that he encountered anyone who seemed to know who he was immediately. 

He came to Sickbay and stopped cold in the doorway. Whereas elsewhere on the ship there was a low level of busyness, beyond the threshold of Sickbay was absolute mayhem. 

Spock blinked and attempted to make sense of the chaos. After a moment he was able to discern a degree of control, but at first glance the inside of the medical department of the _Enterprise_ appeared to be in a state of emergency. Had they already been on their mission, Spock would have assumed they were mid-battle, the many nurses and doctors rushing about saving lives and not – Spock squinted – rearranging medical equipment. 

One man seemed to be directing the chaos, and under the expression of annoyance Spock thought he could spot a glimmer of enjoyment. Despite the shouting he was doing in order to be heard, he seemed quite pleased to be bossing his subordinates around. Spock was sure they were his subordinates, as well. Though he had never met the man in person, he recognized him well enough. Middle-aged, light brown hair already peppered gray at the temples, light blue eyes beneath the knitted brows, powerful arms and shoulders and calloused hands – a rarity in spacefaring physicians – this would be the infamous Dr. Leonard McCoy, country doctor turned starship Chief Medical Officer. 

Spock was still deciding on whether it would be prudent to try and slog his way into the vortex of medical organization or if he should come back when things had become calmer when Dr. McCoy looked his way. Muttering – or rather, shouting at a lower volume – something to a likely looking colleague, the doctor made his way to the doorway, avoiding the careening humans as he went. 

“Commander Spock, I presume,” the doctor said with a wide, toothy smile. “Chief Medical Officer Leonard McCoy, any bumps or bruises we take care of here.” He stuck out one hand towards Spock, offering a hearty handshake to go along with the rest of his ‘good old boy’ routine.

Spock stared at the intruding limb in his personal space, making no move to take it, until the doctor lowered it again with a slightly embarrassed shift of weight. “You presume correctly, doctor,” Spock replied after a moment. “I had expected for your facilities to be fully functional by this stage of the proceedings. Has there been some kind of setback?”

McCoy scoffed, casting a disparaging eye over the anarchy of his Sickbay. “’Functional,’ if that’s what you want to call it,” he said in tones of disgust. “Everything was here, alright, though you’d never know it at first glance. Nothing arranged to any kind of sense, it would take me twice as much time to find the right medicine to give a patient as to cure him of whatever brought him in here! As it stands it’s going to take a full day to rearrange everything so it’s where we can find it, and that’s with help! Imagine trying to accomplish all of this on my own.”

“I hesitate to conjecture anything of the kind,” Spock supplied drily.

The doctor looked sideways at him, eyes slightly narrowed. Spock remained still under the scrutiny, the so-familiar glance towards the sides of his head as the doctor took in the pointed ear tips, the second, longer look over his features as the color of his skin was re-categorized as truly a different hue, and not a trick of the light. “So it’s true our First Officer is a Vulcan. How long have you been in the Fleet, Mr. Spock?”

“Four years, doctor.”

“Hmm.” The look on the doctor’s face was appraising and curious, an interesting combination, before he heaved a theatric sigh. “Well, I can’t say as I have worked on many of your type, Commander, but I reckon I can figure out most anything that runs on two legs. And if not there’s always Dr. M’Benga. He studied four years on Vulcan, no doubt picked up some of the specifics.”

Lifting one sweeping brow at the doctor, his reply was even blander than usual. “It is gratifying to know there is at least one physician versed with a Vulcan’s anatomy.”

For a moment the doctor looked blank, the neutrality of the tone sinking in before the content of the statement. When it did, his face immediately darkened. “Now look here, Commander you may be, but this is _my_ Sickbay, ya green-blooded—“

“Doctor?”

Dr. McCoy came to a halt mid-rant. Spock was somewhat relieved; as interesting as the doctor’s outburst was, it _was_ attracting a lot of unnecessary attention. The doctor turned. A tall nurse with carefully arranged blonde hair was standing just behind him. She looked at Spock, a hesitant smile flickering across her features before her attention returned to McCoy. 

“Yes, Nurse, what is it?”

“I’m sorry, but where was it you wanted the spare hyposprays stored?” She hefted the container she held in her arms as illustration. 

“In the bottom compartment, the row nearest my office,” he said impatiently, waving a hand. “I’ve said several times.”

“Of course. Thank you, doctor.” And with a final look in Spock’s direction, she scurried off to store the container full of hyposprays. 

Spock watched her go, seriously doubting that she had needed the reminder, but had acted with an ulterior motive. Possibly it was an excuse to get a closer look at him. She seemed curious enough, but he thought it more likely she had acted as a distraction for the doctor, heading off what might have appeared to be the beginnings of an argument. 

Bringing his attention back to the CMO, Spock continued as though nothing had happened. “I will allow you to return to your considerable task, doctor. I am making a round of the ship and ought to continue.”

The expression that was turned on him spoke volumes for how much the human _wanted_ to say but was holding back. The thinning of his lips and the up and down look he gave the Vulcan told him just how annoyed he was if his words did not. “Yes, yes,” he said, waving a hand to the door. “Be about your business. I have enough to deal with without babysitting directionless officers.” And somewhat against military protocol, Dr. McCoy turned smartly and strode back into the chaos of Sickbay, a mobile eye of the storm.

Spock watched the doctor a moment or two before he left, glad to put that anarchy behind him. Leonard McCoy was not quite as he would have expected a ship’s surgeon to be, though he fit the general human pattern: disorganized, expending great amounts of energy to apparently frivolous ends, and highly emotive. More so than would typically be expected of an officer of Starfleet, to be sure. Raw, unguided, from what Spock had seen his pattern of stimulus and response was childishly easy to predict. The same would seem to hold true for the Nurse, though perhaps not quite to the same level. If her looks of interest signaled the same thing as they had done in other females, then her patterns could be easily foreseen as well, guided by hormonal imbalances. 

The engine room was Spock’s next stop. It was further from Sickbay than the Bridge, but he decided to pay the metaphorical hub of his next five years a visit last.

The engine room was another nexus of activity, but unlike Sickbay it seemed under complete and relatively sedate control. The dozen or so crew in evidence were all quietly efficient in their movements, the majority of them holding PADDs and recording information into them or entering information into the panels. Those without PADDs seemed to be making minor adjustments to the warp engines under the direction of a thick set man with a noticeable Earth accent. 

Unlike Dr. McCoy, this man did not seem inclined to notice the Vulcan officer who stood in his doorway watching the goings on from a distance. Deciding that he may as well introduce himself, Spock stepped into the Engine room and towards the man directing the room full of engineers. It was like stepping into another reality, one that was separate and individual from the rest of the ship. It was a little like Sickbay, which felt separate from the rest of the ship in that the overriding purpose there was the healing of the fragile, fleshy components that ran the ship. The focus there was entirely internalized, prioritizing the people rather than the ship or whatever was going on outside of it. Here it was the opposite. The rushing humans were dedicated to the ship, their careful motions and the tones of their voices expressing fanatical love for the machinery. None demonstrated this trait more than the man Spock strode towards. 

The big engineer, a lieutenant from the stripes on his sleeve cuffs, only seemed to take notice of Spock when he was practically on top of him. Then his face split into a wide grin, dark eyes sparkling from their crinkles. “Welcome to the Engine room. To whom do I owe the pleasure?”

“Commander Spock,” he replied. “Science and First Officers aboard ship.” He inclined his head in greeting.

Either not noticing or not grasping the significance of the motion, the man stuck out a grease smudged hand at the Vulcan. “Lieutenant Montgomery Scott, at your service, sir.” When all Spock did was glance down at the proffered hand, Scott took it back hastily. “Aye, tis a grimy job, lookin’ after the li’ bairns, but a good one. For what’s a ship wi’ out her heart, eh?”

Receiving no quick rejoinder to his observation, he seemed perfectly willing to ramble on. “O’ course, tha boys who knocked the girl together did a fair eno’ job of it. She runs smooth as any lass in the Fleet, but I always say thar’s room for improvement. The young pups they have cobblin’ together the starships these days, it’s hard to believe. They’re talented lads and lasses, no doubt, no doubt at all, but they’ve no’ tha _experience_ to know the trick of a warp drive. Tha’s where age trumps youth, Commander, and no mistake about that. No _so_ much age, but some.” He paused for breath, looking at Spock, who had remained silent through this tirade. “Now an Engine room’s a bonny place ta visit, but I doubt it was to hear me blather tha ya came down so far. What was it you be wantin’, Commander?”

“Just a simple self-tour, Lieutenant,” he said, looking around the Engine room with mild curiosity. “I had some free time and decided to come up and see the ship before we launch.”

“Tis a good notion, sir,” Scott said. It was difficult to tell if he was being serious or mocking. “Will ya be seein’ to the rest o’ the ship on your tour then, Commander Spock?”

He nodded. “Indeed.”

The Scotsman smiled widely again. “Then you picked a good day an’ no mistake, sir. I won’t keep ye, but next time ya have a minute ta spare I’d be more’n happy ta give ya the tour the Engine room deserves. So don’ be a stranger, now.”

That, at least, was a clear enough suggestion to follow. Spock took his leave gracefully, avoiding the human bodies shuttling about from place to place and back to the familiar feel of the ship’s halls. There were a few other places he wanted to see, but with the one with the highest priority was the Bridge, where he was to be spending the majority of his time while aboard the _Enterprise_ , acting as second-in-command and Chief Science Officer. Perhaps more than his own quarters, the Bridge would be his home for the next five years. 

If the Engine room was the beating heart of the starship, then the Bridge was the brain. From here was where direction to every department would come, where every critical decision would be made. Here was where the sensory organs were located, giving the ship the ability to distinguish its surrounding and where the crew could interpret those impressions. Spock knew from his perusals of ship schematics and by how such ships were typically designed that the Bridge would be circular, with banks of computers all around its circumference until one reached the fore, where the view screen would be located. In the center of the Bridge, called the well for how it was set lower than the computer stations that surrounded it, would be the Command Chair, where the Captain would sit and direct his officers and crew. 

Stepping out of the turbolift, it was all more or less how he had envisioned it, with the exception of several knots of crewmen working at various stations. A glance was enough to tell Spock that this was not a concerted endeavor, but each station had its own team of uniforms, with no central authority to direct them. It was somewhat appropriate, as the Bridge _was_ made of disparate parts to make a whole, and each station would be best tended to by those that would be in charge of them when they were on mission. 

Spock set about making a quick check with each station. For the most part the adjustments taking place were minor; simple tweaks here and there to programs so they would better suit the crew that would be running them. There were two exceptions where entire circuit boards were being replaced, necessitating complete reprograms of the stations to have them up and running again. In both cases this was a result of dissatisfaction on the part of whomever was running the station on its performance. He was taken aback by such extreme measures so near to launch, but when he questioned how the Captain felt about it, he was told that the Captain had approved the changes, with a minimum of trouble. Either the Captain had confidence his crew were not taking such radical action for frivolous reasons, or he was displaying a shocking complacency in his style of command. Spock knew a little something of the _Enterprise_ ’s Captain by reputation within the Fleet, and thought the former option to be the more likely of the two. 

He was privately pleased to discover that the two Ensigns on the Bridge wearing science blues were limiting themselves to ensuring that Spock’s station was up to date on all library files and completely integrated with the rest of the Bridge’s computer. No changes were being made in regard to his station’s performance or interface. 

The final station he checked before leaving was Communications. This station had only two crewmen attending it, one a male working at an open surface panel, the other a female, her upper body lost in the guts of the station’s wiring. They seemed to be working in tandem, the male following the female’s directions. 

“Alright, Bay,” a slightly muffled voice came from beneath the console. “I’m about to send the test signal through the main circuits. Let me know if we get a positive light up.”

“Understood. Standing by.”

A few moments passed with no further word from either of the humans. Spock saw no lights come to life, and after another few moments the woman called up again. “Anything?”

“Negative, sir,” Bay replied. “Not even a blip.”

The sound that came from the underside of the console might have been a nonsensical grumble, or it might have been a short string of profanity. Spock wasn’t able to make out which it was, even with his superior hearing. The woman began extricating herself, scooting a bit at a time until her top half came free, revealing a fine, dark face topped with carefully arranged hair, slightly mussed from her time rooting around in the wiring. She stood, straightening her uniform as she went. 

“I was afraid of that,” she said, pressing some of the controls, all to no effect. “Bay, could you run down to the Engine room and drag Mr. Scott out of whatever vent or Jefferies tube he’s crammed himself into and get him up here? If I know him there’s no way he’ll answer a communicator at less than an emergency level, at the moment and I don’t want to try explaining that to the Captain.”

The Ensign grinned at the request. “Sure thing, Lieutenant. I’ll call in Security if I have to.”

“Thank you,” the Lieutenant called after his retreating back, and picked up a PADD laying on her station, apparently resigned to paperwork until the Engineer was dragged up to the Bridge. She nearly dropped it again when Spock greeted her.

“Lieutenant Nyota Uhura, I believe?”

“Oh!” The Lieutenant jumped, eyes wide when she looked up at him. She smiled through her surprise and scanned him thoroughly, from ear tip to brow to rank insignia to boots before she spoke. “Yes! I’m sorry, sir, you gave me quite a start. I didn’t hear you approach at all.”

“My apologies, it was not my intention to startle you. I am—“

“First Officer Spock, correct?” Uhura interrupted. She had a very bright smile, full of white teeth and setting her dark eyes shining. “News of your assignment to the _Enterprise_ has become common knowledge. We were wondering when you would join us, sir.”

Spock did his best to ignore the casual interruption. It was a common enough occurrence in human conversation, and one he had very nearly accustomed himself to while in Starfleet Academy. He’d had to accustom himself to a great many things while on Earth, all concerning the species he lived, learned and worked with. Humans were undeniably different from Vulcans, and he owed his mother and the many early lessons she had given him for his successes in that regard. 

“There seemed little reason to come aboard before now. Is there some difficulty with your instruments?” He indicated the torn apart console panel. 

Lieutenant Uhura cast a rueful glance over her station. “Oh, it’s not as bad as it looks, sir. Mr. Scott and I are trying some improvements on the long distance couplings, but the circuits he’s rigged up are arguing with everything else. Unless there’s some magic to it that I haven’t figured out yet, we’ll have to scrap the idea until we’ve smoothed out the wrinkles.”

“I see,” Spock said blandly. “Is it common for Mr. Scott to improve on a ship that is fresh off of the assembly line?”

The woman’s grin only widened further, until she was chuckling. “Yes, Mr. Spock, I think it’s safe to say that it is a very common practice of his to do just that. He’s a tinkerer at heart, and wouldn’t know what to do with himself if he weren’t fiddling around with this or that. But he knows ships and his craft better than anyone I’ve ever known. Nineteen times in twenty a venture of his will turn out just as he envisioned it.”

“You’ve known him for some time?”

Uhura nodded. Her eye flickered away from him for a moment, then came back up. Spock noted the fidget, and followed the logical progression of facial expression, body language and tonal cues it led him to. “Yes, I have,” she said. He took note of the octave shift, half a tone lower, the rhythm change. “Mr. Scott and I have known each other since the Academy.”

Had he been human and naturally given to such things, Spock might have smiled at the tidbit of information Uhura had just unknowingly dropped at his feet. As it was his face remained completely blank, and he contented himself with filing the knowledge away for future use. “Did you attend the same classes?” he asked, hoping to glean a little more information from her subconscious shifts and voice patterns. “That seems a little unusual.”

“Well, not _all_ of our classes, but—“

A mechanical beeping cut her off, the sound of a communicator going off. Uhura looked round and picked up the small box lying on her eviscerated station. Excusing herself, she flipped open the face. “Lieutenant Uhura here, go ahead.”

A slightly mechanized male voice came through the communicator. “Kirk here, Uhura. Is the communications panel still undergoing final adjustments?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Any of Scotty’s brainchildren working out?”

Uhura winced slightly, but was neutral when she answered. “The jury is still out on that, sir. We’re having some trouble with integration.”

“Well, let Scotty know if the two of you can’t get it to behave in the next six hours we’ll have to let it go for now.” The Captain sounded amused, even over the communicator. 

“Aye, sir.”

“Incidentally, I hear our First Officer is aboard. If you see him, get in contact with me right away, will you?”

Uhura glanced up at him, a hint of a smile playing around her lips. Spock merely blinked back. “I can do you one better than that, Captain, he’s on the Bridge right now.”

“Excellent! Have him meet me on the Observation Deck, at his earliest convenience.”

“Aye, sir.”

“Kirk out.”

Uhura closed the communicator, dark eyes shining. “It seems you have an appointment with the Captain, Commander, on the Observation Deck. At your convenience.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant. I will go there directly.”

On the way to the Observation Deck, Spock replayed all he knew of his new Captain in his mind. He knew of the man, of course. Even if he had not heard of him before becoming aware that he was to be the Captain of the _Enterprise_ , he’d had plenty of time to skim his personality profile and career records since then. James Tiberius Kirk, human, born on Earth, Iowa and joined Starfleet at age seventeen. He had an above average score rate there, with a high aptitude for such things as creative thinking and problem solving. By current human standards he was what could be called a staunch traditionalist. His psychological evaluations stated that he was also determinedly individualistic, resistive to the ‘new human’ movement that was becoming common, which made him prime material for the mission of space exploration and contact with alien species.

He was known in the Fleet for being just enough of a rule breaker to be unpredictable, but never enough to merit any sort of condemnation. There were even rumors that Kirk had beaten the Kobayashi Maru, in theory an impossible feat. Spock was curious to meet him and to get a personal interpretation on how he functioned, how he thought and how he interacted with those under his command. 

The Observation Deck was one of the few places on the _Enterprise_ that was truly calm. There were no crewmen running from place to place, no panels being ripped to pieces, and no shouted orders from perfectionist doctors or engineers. The Deck was quiet and dimly lit, giving a sense of isolation and privacy, and the low light allowed for a spectacular view of the dry docks and the orbiting shuttlecraft. 

The overhead lights were practically non-existent, in fact, set to what would become the ‘night cycle’ when the ship and its crew were finally out in deep space, mimicking the day and night hours of planetary rotation as closely as possible. It was a convention set in place by humans, Vulcans, and some of the other races as well, to imitate the rhythms of one’s home planet when out amongst the stars. It was one of those deceptively small things that worked to bring the different species of distant planets closer together: that they were more comfortable and functioned better when they felt as though they were still home. The dimness of the Observation Deck was amplified by the brightness streaming in through the wide ports. Occasionally a shuttle would pass close by, either casting shadows or cutting through them with their exterior lamps. 

Only one corner of the Deck was what could be considered well-lit, and it drew Spock’s eye immediately, arresting his attention. 

The Observation Deck was designed as a place of quiet recreation, to pass the time in contemplation or restive companionship. As such its décor consisted mainly of seating, small tables, couches, and those hardy plants - Terran and otherwise - that could survive the stresses of space travel without needing to remain in bioscience labs or nurseries. In this one corner, however, two lamps had been set to cast harsh light over a medium-sized table strewn with several PADDs, data tapes and even paper files. Seated at the table, determinedly wading through the gathered mounds of information was a man Spock recognized as Captain Kirk. 

Standing as he was in the dimmest part of the room, the Captain had yet to notice him. He took the opportunity provided to examine the man who was to be his Commanding Officer for at least the next five years. He was familiar with the man’s features from photographs and from one or two passing glances over the past few years, but this was his first opportunity to observe him in the flesh, somewhat at his leisure.

Even sitting, Spock could see that Kirk was not a tall individual. His physique ran more towards the square and muscular rather than to the tall and lean, and it was a tendency that held true in all of his features. The angle and weight of his jaw, his shoulders, even his hands and fingers as they curled around PADDs and stylus, all had a certain bluntness to them that suggested strength and determination. Under the harsh lights of his lamps, his hair was almost white-golden, though Spock knew that it was in reality a light brown, and though the distance was too great to see for himself, Spock knew his eye color was listed as hazel. He was, physically, what Spock had been expecting of him. 

There _were_ some things that were not conveyed properly by photo or by brief glances, however. For example, Spock noticed that a fine line appeared between his brows as he read. When he put his stylus to PADD, he wrote in short, sharp bursts, suggesting his hand writing would be angular and broken as opposed to rounded or smooth. It was also interesting to note how Kirk progressed through his work. Like his writing, he went in bursts, focusing for a time on a single PADD or file, then switching abruptly, only to switch again a few moments later.

It wasn’t until the Captain put down his PADD and sat back in his chair with a sigh that Spock realized how long he had been standing there. 

Captain Kirk brought his square hands up to his eyes and massaged gently with his fingers at his brow ridges, the bridge of his nose. Getting a ship and crew prepared was no simple task, and Spock found himself wondering just how many hours of sleep the man was allowing himself. 

When he lowered his hands he noticed Spock, who had taken a couple of steps into the room. He didn’t evidence surprise, but smiled, coming to his feet. “Commander Spock, I presume?” he said with a quirk to his lips. “Captain Jim Kirk.”

Spock came to within a few steps of the Captain and his makeshift desk and stopped, falling into a parade rest. “First Science Officer Spock, sir. It’s pleasure to meet you at last.”

The small smile Kirk wore became somewhat rueful, the man’s brows canting to make his expression skeptical. “Yes, well,” he glanced briefly at his private mountain of paperwork, “my apologies for the delay in meeting sooner than this, Commander. Had it been left purely to choice and not the circumstances we find ourselves in, I would have had it ages ago. Or at least when we weren’t running around like chickens with our heads cut off.”

Spock blinked at the colorful turn of phrase. He wasn’t familiar with it, but the image it conveyed was plain enough. He didn’t reply to it, though, uncertain what the expected response to beheaded poultry would be. 

If Kirk expected a response, it didn’t show in either his face or his body language. He motioned to the second chair on Spock’s side of the table for him to take and sat back down himself. A little distractedly he moved the PADDs, files and tapes around, reorganizing them with steady fingers. As his hands moved, he spoke. “Well, Mr. Spock. This is somewhat awkward, meeting for the first time mere days out from embarking on a five year mission together.”

Having taken his seat, Spock watched the other man’s hands dance over the table. _Nervous energy?_ he wondered. The motions weren’t quite sporadic enough for that, though, and he decided it was more likely to be a personality trait, a need to be continually moving. It was common enough in humans.

“Not so awkward as you may believe, sir,” he commented. “There are a great many individuals aboard whom I cannot say I have ever met face to face. Equally, there are many - perhaps the majority - whose acquaintance can be measured in days.”

“Perhaps. But I would have preferred it if we, Captain and second-in-command, could have been the exception. Quite a lot depends upon how well we will work together.” He glanced up at him.

Spock paused, and then nodded. “This is so, sir.”

Kirk waved a hand dismissively. “We can begin our acquaintance by dispensing with the ‘sirs’ in private. They make conversations sound too much like conferences.” 

He leaned back in his chair, his hands finally falling still, and looked his new First Officer up and down. It was an appraising look, as well as one that seemed to be mapping Spock, cataloguing his appearance for future reference. As he did so, Spock took note of those places where his eyes lingered a fraction longer than the rest: His hands clasped on the table, or possibly the cuffs of his sleeves that denoted his rank; the Starfleet insignia at his left breast that showed his science department affiliation; and predictably, at the points of his ears. Though Kirk did not stare so long as a great many others had done in the past when meeting him for the first time. Most would stare at his ears openly, fascinated by the most obvious sign of his Vulcan heritage. Kirk looked, paused briefly, and then returned his attention to Spock’s eyes.

A smile, faint, still lingered around the Captain’s mouth. A shuttle passed the port, washing the Deck in a white glow, and for a moment making the man’s eyes gleam, his face sharpening in the high contrasts of light and shadow. “Though this _is_ the first time we’ve met, Mr. Spock, I won’t pretend to have never heard of you before. You are quite well known in Starfleet; it’s an honor to have you as a part of my crew.”

Spock inclined his head in acknowledgement. “And yourself, s—Captain. Your reputation precedes you, as well. It is not so surprising that you have been chosen for this particular mission.”

Kirk chuckled. When Spock rose a questioning eyebrow he stifled his laughter. “Flattery will get you everywhere,” he said by way of explanation. 

“It was not my intention—“

He stopped abruptly when Kirk held up a hand. “I am aware, Mr. Spock. I was only making a joke.” He sighed, shaking off the last of his mirth. “Well. Since we _will_ be working closely for the next few years, I think we should begin the process of building a rapport immediately. We both know of each other by reputation, and I don’t know about you, but I’ve had the opportunity to look over your personal file going back to your Academy days,” he indicated one of the PADDs lying on the table. “So. Let’s start with some history that the record doesn’t show. That is, if you have no objection?”

It took only a moment to consider Kirk’s proposal. He could find no objection to the exercise Kirk suggested; in fact he saw the potential to gain more than he gave even if he was the only one who recounted his pre-Academy days. But then, there was what Kirk might be _expecting_ of him as a Vulcan. Vulcans were well known for being recalcitrant when it came to personal matters, and this request would be considered personal. If he accepted, Kirk might think it very odd, and any information Spock wanted on Kirk could be gained in other ways, over time of which they would soon have in abundance with much less risk. But then, the Captain would feel he had missed out on time spent ‘building rapport’ with his FO. 

Spock composed his face into a frozen mask. “I have no objection.”

From the way Kirk’s face smoothed over, his answer pleased the man. “Good, good!” PADDs were moved again, visual and audio punctuation. “Tell me, why choose Starfleet? It’s not a common career choice among Vulcans, and your talents qualify you for some of the most prestigious of positions available. So why throw in with our little band?”

The Vulcan tilted his head at Kirk. “I would hardly describe Starfleet as a ‘little band,’ Captain. As to your question, I can only answer that I found Starfleet to be a better fit to my needs than any other option available to me.”

“In what way?” To Spock’s ear, the Captain sounded genuinely interested.

Spock contemplated the interest, filed it away for further consideration later. “’Stimulation’ would be the best way to describe it in a single word. Prestigious and honored as some of my alternative choices might have been, none of them offered the same opportunities of discovery or critical thinking as being aboard ship. I find the idea of taking on a more typical position to be a stifling one.”

“I can sympathize,” the Captain replied, another smile attempting to lift around the corners of his mouth. He cast a quick look over his PADDs and files, as though seeking to refresh his memory, or just to have somewhere else to look. “I was still surprised when I read what little personal history there was of you in the computer, that you chose the Fleet. From what I gather, you’re the son of an Ambassador and a—“

“A human,” Spock interjected, long since familiar with this particular line of conversation and allowing mild irritation to show. “Yes, Captain. But I think you will find my capabilities on par with any that a full blooded Vulcan can claim.”

Kirk looked at him, brows rising until they were practically at his hairline. He was silent for a time, eyes locked on Spock’s face, studying him. So early in their acquaintance it was a little difficult to read all of the shadings in his expression, but Spock thought he looked surprised, thoughtful and… concerned?

“I was going to say, ‘teacher,’” he said quietly. 

The words were unexpected, the sincerity and underlying gentleness of them unbalanced him. 

Whatever his impressions, however, Spock kept his face blank. After a moment Kirk sat back in his chair with a sigh, again rubbing at his eyes with his hands. “I suppose we should address the elephant in the room. I had hoped to avoid it entirely, but it will come up eventually, and it would be better if it were sooner rather than later.” He lowered his hands, refocusing on Spock. Another shuttle passed by outside, it exterior lamps passing over the room and casting the two men into extremes of darkness and light. 

“We live in a universe that is ever expanding, Mr. Spock. We encounter new species at a rate only dreamed of by our ancestors, when space flight was still in its infancy. The very mission of this ship is to push the boundaries of what we know, to seek out and contact alien life. As a society we have achieved a level of openness, understanding and tolerance never before known in human history. But, as much as I would like to definitively say otherwise, humans are not free of their prejudices.” The look he leveled on Spock was frank, free of any trace of insulting condescension. “I want you to know, Spock, that prejudice of any kind will _not_ be tolerated aboard my ship, nor am I expecting anything of the kind from my crew. But I will be limited in what I can do by the severity of any incidents that might take place. Should all that take place take the form of subtle indications over open action…”

“I understand, sir,” Spock interjected, more gently this time, and forgetting the earlier request to refrain from the use of ‘sir.’ “I am well aware of the potential for strife due to my mixed parentage. I have lived with it my entire life.”

“Of course. And I am sure that you are aware that while there are not many, there are a few other Vulcans among the crew? Yes, I thought so. My concern, Spock, comes from your very unique position. To appearances you are Vulcan, through and through. To my eye there is nothing that would immediately suggest that you are of two worlds, and I am reasonably certain the same will hold true of every other human in the crew. I don’t know if there is anything that would be more evident to a full blooded Vulcan…?”

“Nothing physical, Captain.”

Kirk nodded. “But be that as it may, no one will need to see the difference. You are well known, and all but the greenest of Ensigns will be aware of your… _status_ , shall we say. My concern lies in how both sides will respond to the fact that you are neither one nor the other, and yet both. And not only that, that they will have to take _orders_ from you.”

To his credit, Kirk managed the speech better than many others before him had. Normally this line was accompanied with fidgeting, reassurances seeded every other sentence, or at worst, stutters and hesitations. Kirk got through it all without any of that, and still managed to project a sense of sincerity. Spock was gratified to have been assigned to the ship where this man was to be Captain. 

“You need not concern yourself. As I have said, I have been aware with this issue throughout my lifetime, and do not expect it to change. Any notable incidents – though I doubt they will ever arise – will of course be immediately reported. Anything that falls below level of requiring disciplinary action I can handle myself.”

“I’m afraid I can’t allow that, Mr. Spock.” There was a snap of command in his tone. “As your Captain, I hereby order you to report _all_ incidents, whether they merit disciplinary action or not, no matter how trivial.” He smiled grimly. “I like to be aware of all that goes on aboard my ship, and anything akin to intolerance or racism is high on my list of ‘need to know.’ Do we have an understanding, First Officer?”

Spock almost smiled. Against expectation, he found himself liking this human. He nodded smartly to cover any twitching of his lips. “Yes, Captain.”

Unless he was much mistaken, he saw a mirror of his not-quite smile reflected on Kirk. “Good,” he said. He tilted his head at Spock. The Vulcan was struck suddenly by how bright his eyes were. Reflecting the light of the lamps, they were almost golden, not the hazel they were listed in his personnel file. When he spoke again he startled Spock back to the present.

“I must admit to a little curiosity on my own part, Spock. Vulcans and humans have known of each other as species and worked together for some time now, but I have never heard of a case where the two bloodlines successfully meshed. There can’t be very many such as yourself.”

“There are not,” Spock agreed, and then paused. 

Kirk noticed the hesitation and misinterpreted it. “If this subject is inappropriate or uncomfortable for you we can leave it.”

He shook his head. “Not at all. Truthfully, I would rather answer your curiosity now. Questions that go unanswered do not dissipate, and may act as a distraction to you during critical times. I believe our mission will have enough inherent danger without contributing more of our own, however small.” He shrugged, a human gesture he’d adopted. “There is no reason to keep any secret, and some very good ones to divulge.”

“Soundly reasoned,” Kirk commented drily, eyes dancing.

“Logical.” Spock thought back to some of his earliest days, when he had been a child growing up on Vulcan, receiving the different forms of instruction for both his Vulcan and human halves, trying to raise him into a stable balance between the two. Those had been some… difficult days, crammed with every kind of study, every kind of discipline, when his own origins had been carefully explained so he could know himself as well as was possible. 

“It is not impossible,” he began, choosing his words with care, “for human and Vulcan DNA to join together. The two species are similar enough, despite the fact that we come from different planets, that it was not unheard of for it to happen even before my own case. However, after the initial fertilization, any resultant fetus was never expected to last to term. None ever had. A developing organism can never quite balance the two halves well enough to survive its own development.”

“Until your case?”

Spock shook his head. “Not even in mine. I was not expected to survive through gestation. There was nothing in my conception or development that gave me more favorable chances than any fetus before me. Had it not been for some radical and highly experimental intervention partway through my mother’s pregnancy, I would have gone the way of so many others. Even after ensuring that I would live to a semi-normal birth, there was no knowing how a hybrid child would develop. There were questions of health, deformities, even retardation if the genes did not mesh properly. Thankfully, there have been no complications since then.”

“Your parents must have wanted you very much,” Kirk commented. “To go to such risks.”

Spock shrugged. “My parents are both very determined individuals. They would have to be to remain together.”

That earned a laugh, warm and throaty, from Kirk. It took an instant for Spock to realize why what he had said had created such a reaction. He thought about correcting himself, but decided against it. Let his Captain laugh. It was not an unpleasant sound.

“Well,” he eventually said through his chuckles, “whatever their reasons and despite the challenges they faced, I’m quite glad to profit by their efforts. I feel much more secure knowing that you will be my second in command, Mr. Spock.”

Golden eyes shone at Spock over a table strewn with tedious deskwork, the busy buzzing of shuttlecraft visible at his shoulder and the deep, distant rumble of Mr. Scott’s engines being put through their dry dock paces. This was soon to be Spock’s world, the inside of this ship, the sound of engines the beating heart of home, the movement of crew the blood and pulse. And this man, Captain Kirk, with his piercing eyes and ready smile, they would become a central feature of his tour. Even had he not been the First Officer, he could see that it would have been so. As surely as he could feel the _Enterprise_ ’s engines thrumming through the soles of his shoes, Spock could see that stare in his future, leveled squarely on him. 

The only question left in his mind, was how best to use this man to his purpose?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've discovered a surprising dislike for trying to write Scotty's burr, lol.
> 
> So, I'm still not sure if I'll be continuing this. I wrote this part a looong time ago and it took ages for me to edit and format. If you enjoyed and would like more, lemme know, cuz I have no idea if there's even any interest in this. ^^;
> 
> Thanks for reading! ♥

**Author's Note:**

> I am sorry, I am sorry, I am sorry, I. Am. So. Sorry.
> 
> I really do love Sarek and Amanda, individually and as a couple, and the idea for this, when it came, was really strange for me… but I really wanted to write it out. When it finally came to the last little piece, hinting at horrible intentions, (and yes, I do have a plan for it should this continue), I almost didn’t do it. I loved the feel of the whole thing and was terrified that the last twisty bit would kill it.


End file.
